(Author’s note: be sure to click on links as they provide additional flavor and nuance to the blog posts . . .)

Fat kneecaps

To be specific — MY fat kneecaps. I’ve been fairly slim most of my life, tried to eat a well-balanced diet, exercised, etc. Imagine my surprise when one random morning after my shower I flip my head over to wrap a towel around my hair. Can you hear the intake of air? The gasp? My kneecaps have gained weight! Okay, surprise is a mild word. Dismay. Chagrin. Horror. Shock. Disgust. Terror. R e v u l s i o n. Kneecaps? Really? How do you gain weight just on your kneecaps?? Is this a practical joke?

*Update: I do so wish the weight gain had remained only on my kneecaps . . . sigh.

Gorilla BO

Have you ever stepped inside of a gorilla exhibit? At our zoo the highly-charged testeronic beasts are separated from the rest of the crew with their own special house. This zoo frat house has a long walkway in and not a short enough walkway out. The only other time I gagged that much was when I allowed a Belgian city worker to use my bathroom who must have been digesting some horribly decomposed animal. <Insert shudder>

This quirky show was the highlight of my week. The writing was brilliant and the episodes were so off the wall I found myself laughing so hard I was spitting on the TV screen. Leave it to TV executives to execute any show with originality. But yes, we need more Reality TV because our lethargic brains just can’t get enough of strangers choosing “soul mates,” watching the upteenth DUI trying to walk a straight line for the cops, or truckers driving on yet another highway of snow and ice while carrying a load of . . . oh who cares . . .

I hate buying new tennis shoes. With each and every pair I am convinced my feet grow bigger and longer in a race to beat my kneecaps. I look like a delirious clown flopping around the store. Oh to have petite, feminine feet (without, of course, the ancient Chinese method of feet binding. I do draw the line at that.) Which leads me to . . .

Creepy Clowns

This last Halloween Hubby and I realized we hadn’t effectively scarred any of our children lately. (Yes, you read it right – scarred NOT scared.) Our 19-year-old daughter absolutely, unequivocally hates clowns – in all shapes, sizes, and forms. In her eyes there are no happy clowns, they are all machete-carrying, glazed-eyed, blood-splattered demons. So we skipped over to Walmart, found a morose rubber clown, replaced our daughter’s closet light with a red light bulb, and hung the doll in her closet.

There was some freakadge, but not enough to warrant the paybacks I received over the next month. No matter how hard I tried to throw that clown away, it would invariably end up in places I did not want it to be; my office chair, under my bed covers . . . you get the idea. Below is a picture of it (finally) in the trash for good. Maybe taking the picture captured the clown’s demented soul, preventing it from crawling out of the dumpster one last time. Anyone a Chuckie expert?

This really, really drives me crazy. Ever write a nice little note and the only response are crickets? Slightly less infuriating is when there is a response but it ends up as an entirely unrelated topic as a piggyback on your email or message stream. It sometimes feels like calling suicide hotline and they put you on hold.